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I don't know what to title my poems anymore

If it could be some form of consolation
To make you feel a little good about yourself
It’s not that you said certain things wrong
Or that I’m not someone that you deserve
It’s just that the magic goes away
With the proclamation of love

It could be that I’m of a fickle mind
And I don’t really think things through
I don’t mean to be unkind,
But can I un-choose you?

Perhaps it doesn’t take effect on me
That words have weight
And that do-overs don’t come without
Unscathed egos and unrealized gratifications

I guess I'm a little aversive to dependence
and I'm addicted to
the solitude after all.

it’s something about the cease of thrill
The complacence
The reassurance
The security
The closure
The illusory forever-ness
The stagnancy
That comes with the emotionally-charged declaration

Forgive me for being the cynic
Believer of the absurd
But it really is the end of the magic
When I say those words

Perhaps I chose the lesser evil
Letting myself rendered paralyzed by dilemmas
Than going to the next level
And risk falling from a higher precipice

Perhaps one day I’d give you the satisfaction
Of seeing me look back in regret
And wish that I’d had kept the fire burning
When you started it.


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